In the spring of ’85, the day which had been set aside by the various governors for planting trees was legalized as a holiday,—and J. Sterling Morton had given Arbor Day to Nebraska, which, in turn, was eventually to give it to the other states. That summer Abbie again planned the delayed trip back home. Before she was ready word was noised about that an academy was to open in Weeping Water in the fall. It was to have a full three-year academic course preparing students for college, with special attention to the languages.

“For what anybody two vays vant to talk . . .?” Christine asked.

“I felt like telling her no one could object if she would stick to one way,” Abbie told Will. Christine’s language was no better than when she had first arrived in the prairie schooner. Quite often she used both the German and the English words in the same sentence.

Emma Lutz, Margaret’s chum, and a year younger, was going to the academy. Henry and Sarah drove over to Weeping Water in their high-topped buggy with the natural-colored maple wheels and a red tassel on the whip, to get a place for Emma to board.

Abbie could think of nothing else when she heard it. An academy! Margaret ought to go,—Margaret, at sixteen, with her braids of soft dark hair, her big gray eyes, her gentle manner, and her love of painting. She ought to have more schooling, to meet more young people. Several times that summer Emil Reinmueller had come over to take her to neighborhood socials. It worried Abbie a little. Emil was nineteen, a blond young giant, stolid, crude, virile. What if . . .? “Thou art mated to a clown and the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down,” Abbie had read from Tennyson’s Locksley Hall. Emil was no mate for Margaret with her love of the niceties of life. What could a mother do? What had her mother done? Nothing. “I married the man I wanted,” Abbie thought. What if Margaret, with her high ideals and her painting talent—what if she should suddenly turn and say, “Mother, I’m going to marry Emil.” What could one do? The worry of it was constantly with Abbie.

She began trying to plan how she could send Margaret to the academy with little expense. The money for the trip back home would pay the first tuition. Will did not like the idea. “You’ve planned this trip for years. You ought not to give it up for her. And she’s just where she can really help you, now, at home.” He argued, “You’ve got yourself to think about.”

“Oh, no, I haven’t,” Abbie said quickly, “I’ve got the children to think about.”

He gave in, a little grudgingly. If Abbie thought she could manage—And Abbie knew she must manage.

She took the team and drove the ten miles to Weeping Water. When she came back, she had a place in the minister’s family for Margaret to work for her board, and a dress pattern of red and gray plaid for best. It was all they could afford now, but on the way home Abbie mentally made over Margaret’s old dress and one of her own, trimmed a hat, and relined a winter coat.